The Sons of Winter
by Silverwyrm
Summary: Picking up in the ASOIAF universe where the books left off, mixing some popular fan theories and predictions with my own imaginations and innovations. The goal is to remain plausible and consistent throughout.
1. Prologue - The Black Brother

The water was cold, but the night was colder. Evening fell like summer rain, thick and heavy and sudden, and with it a light sleep that never truly took him down into a full embrace.

He awoke with a start, his back aching and his arse on fire. The moon still hung forlornly in the sky, and the chill of winter was all about them. He had not slept more than a mark or two of the candle. A gentle breeze stumbled its way through the trees which lined the riverbank, seeping through the thicket which served as their only true protection. Somewhere a wolf howled, too far away to present any imminent danger, and everywhere the crickets sang their usual song. The fire crackled on, low but steady, their sole prevention against watersnakes and any other foul creatures the night might bring against them. He threw what was left of the sweetgrass onto the flames, to ward off mosquitoes and other such malefactors, but there was not much at hand, meaning the effect would be minimal if at all. Against his better judgement he had spent the greater part of the late afternoon scouring the river bank for the stuff, in attendance to the wishes of the wretching maid - _a maid? no longer, not for many a moon -_ instead of pressing on and seeking shelter on the small uninhabited island a couple leagues south. Insult was added to injury when she made use of surprisingly little, taking some to rub on her face and skin (as she urged him to do also, to his grudging acquiescence) and throwing the rest into some ill-conceived concoction involving mulberries and other unidentified herbal finds to brew a tea for them both. The black brother was little inclined towards either superstition or adolescent optimism, but the absence of a maester and the brutal assault levied against him by his bowels had him taking the small metal bow up to his cracked, dry lips.

Perhaps with honey to sweeten it, the brew would not have tasted quite so foul, but as it was the brother had to hold onto all of his resolve not to bring it all right back up. The lass for her part made do as if downing the Arbor's finest, falling asleep promptly thereafter. To her credit she had not cried a peep all day and night long, and his bowels, while rumbling, no longer threatened to adorn his dull garb with firey shit whenever he should make the slightest of movements.

His back still ached, however, and crouching in the bramble until sun down had not done his old knees any favours either. In his waking hours (and he had barely slept at all) he found himself fumbling about for his dagger more often than he liked, rough old hands running back and forth over the hilt in search of some vague reassurance.

The lions would be have been occupied with their siege at least a day or two longer, during which time following the river's course had been the easiest and safest option for them. The singer had left them a small fishing boat a league and a half upstream, but the black brother was loathe to attract unwanted attention by alerting every single riverside village unnecessarily. He had rowed them as far as he could on the first night, then abandoned the boat half-way through the next day when the damned search for sweetgrass delayed their progress. They (well, the lady at least) slept from noon until just past sun down, at which point he retrieved the boat and woke the innocent looking young septa. The girl was still tired, but riders would set off on the morrow (if they had not already) and there was every chance they'd head this way. It was thus imperative they reach their destination before sun up, though with the delay the black brother was unsure whether such was physically possible.

 _I must try._

Underneath his oars a muddy water dyed red-brown flowed, its thick and slow current gently fighting him back along every bend and curve. The crickets, the owls, the wolves and all the rest of Stranger's menagerie sunk into the background as they gently glided away from home. At long last they came upon the first of the two bends that served as Castle Lychester's bay, but all the black brother could do was grit his teeth and press on, as exhausted as he was. Bright blue eyes flared angrily in the moonlight. They had been followed for the better part of a league, quietly, gently, almost undetectably. It was too soon for lions and weasels, which meant the two godsworn were fallen prey to bandits and brigands of some other kind, broken men and outlaws - no doubt those desperate heretics who had taken up with the Red God and forsworn any prior affection they might have had for the Faith. It was not an inviting prospect, to be burnt alive - and he readily perceived he was both surrounded and grossly outnumbered. The horses waiting for them in Lychester's stable would have to wait, as he rowed on, harder and faster, in a bid to shake off and lose his pursuers. His efforts had the opposite effect, however, as muffled orders grew louder and the cloak of night was no longer able to hide the increasing agitation around them.

 _They knew we were coming._

The singer.

The thought came at once, as did the curse that he muttered under his breath. _Why?_ was the only question he had - for the singer, for the gods, for all of the bloody Seven Kingdoms and every realm that lay beyond them. If the man had meant to betray them he could have done so right away - informed the Freys or Lannisters, or told them nothing, or left no bloody boat in the first place - but it was possible, likely even, that he had breathed word into the wrong ears, those of some greedy little shit who sold what he had heard or been entrusted with to the lions or weasels. Perhaps they'd simply been overheard or found out in some other way. Whatever had transpired it was easy to discern that these pursuers had been expecting them and they'd been expecting them at that exact spot. At the very least they knew who their captives were, and what ransome they could yield...though more like that not they'd take the girl first and do him some harm too before anything else.

These thoughts were interrupted as one of his oars cracked, striking what was either a turtle or stone. He looked up in time to see the first arrow hit the hem of his garment, setting it on fire. The bow it had been fired was held proudly in the air, almost as if a signal to the other men, and the archer smiled him a wicked smile before vanishing into the darkness. The septa woke with a start and screamed, which seemingly served as a signal for the men to enter the water. The oar struck another unseen - _he hoped a skull_ \- and cracked, making any attempt at escape futile. He could swim away, but the girl...

 **"Go, my Lord, go!"**

He wavered a second before reaching through the growing flames and snatching her to him. She did not resist, but he was immediately aware they were not alone as the boat rocked and quivered under a new weight. He turned around and met the gaze of an archer wading into the water on the shore, the man's eyes smiling broadly in wild and gluttonous recognition.

 **"Blackfish!"** The man cried, as if greeting an old friend.

 _Frey._

He pushed the girl back and lunged, making for their assailant's throat. There were others... _more, many, too many_...but Aegon Bloodborn would have to wait. What mattered was the attacker here present, the bold and brave outlaw who had no doubt thought to make a name and fame for himself as the captor of the Blackfish, the man whose blood now gurgled violently forth as he tried to claw his throat back together. He was thrown off the boat without cereemony and plunged back into the water, suddenly still and calm save for the man's own death throes and final attempts at survival. The black brother seized the remaining oar and plunged it sideways, propelling the boat away from the shore and further upstream, a muttered reassurance or two issued to calm the now weeping lass, but he felt his heart swell in his throat and the brew curdle in his belly in the silent moment that followed.

This would not be his last fight.

 **"Please my Lord, save yourself!"**

 **"Quiet woman!"**

He spun around, one, two, three times, but no more assailants came. He saw them running along the shore, but those who were in the water were either lying in wait or had fallen back in the noisy demise of their fallen comrade. Aegon Frey was gone, at least for now, and he could not be sure if they were still following him. They could have escaped, even with a single oar, he thought, but for the fire, which reignited the boat as more arrows pierced through the night and stalled the lady's initially successful attempts to put it out with riverwater. He ripped off his burning cloak and put his arm around her, looking around one last time, before holding her tight and plunging into the water.

What followed was a madness of shouting, confusion and noise - men splashing into the water all around, men grabbing at their legs and arms, men arguing amongst themselves, even what looked like the dead body of his slain assailant being palmed off from one brigand to the other as they all struggled to simultaneously bark curses and orders at each other while lunging for the Blackfish and his companion. He felt the prick of a blade, and under the water he saw the girl's legs frantically beating just out of his grasp, and a hurt on his head when he came up for air such as he had never felt before, knocking him nigh-unconscious and sending him back under the river's line. He was pushed down, held down, pulled up, grabbed, stabbed again, and then he was falling, falling, gasping for air as he clawed the water, darkness surrounding him, a trout's beady eyes his only onlookers now...a gurgling man with a haggard face looking back at him, in fear and desperation, screaming nothing to no one, bright blue eyes and a shaved head peeking out under the dancing robes of night...eyes that rolled back and a mouth which at last stopped moving, sinking silently into the deep.


	2. Harry I

A flaxen tuft emerged from midst the furs and wolfskins that covered the bed. The woollen blanket beneath them was warm, thank god, but unfamiliar to the senses, unkind to the touch. Like a strange woman's embrace, theirs was not to survive daybreak. Winter had come and the first snows had fallen the day before, but it was not yet so cold as to allow a man to see his breath. All the same an unforgiving chill nipped at the figure of white marble as it stretched every extremity and then sat up, slouched at first, and then straightened and rigid. Rude fingers removed sleep from pale blue eyes; a careless slap to the arm attempted to awake the solidly inert companion at its side.

Across the room a shield caught the first rays of sunlight and reflected them back at the pale blue. A surcoat, all red and white diamonds, was draped over part of it, but keen eyes could yet trace each quarter. Moon and falcon shone brightest of all, the broken wheel of Waynwood with its missing spoke catching the eye next. The field of diamonds evoked attention last of all, saved from confusion with the surcoat only by the grace of the duller tones of the paint.

 _Heir._

In truth his heart still stirred at the thought. Thrice an heir, per his arms. Heir to much and more, if Bronze Yohn was to be believed.

It had often seemed to him that everyone in the Vale of Arryn could recite his ancestry by rote. Worse – it had often seemed to him that everyone in the Vale of Arryn felt they had to recite his ancestry whenever they first met or spoke of him. He had long ago endeavoured to set to memory the exact circumstances by which he had come to be, in fuller detail than could be recited to him by others. His grandfather Ser Elys was the great culprit, a younger son blessed with comely features and a kind tongue. Duty and good sense had seen him dedicate his life's service to his brother and niece of Ironoaks, where he had been a household knight, captain of the guard, master-at-arms, castellan, even Regent and Protector. Praiseworthy in his diligence, his long face was still remembered fondly by men in Ironoaks and beyond.

In his youth Ser Elys had spent several years among his mother's people at Runestone. He had been received there as a ward of Lord Royce, and promoted in due time to page and squire. He earned his knight's spurs in the squire's melée at the tourney held there to celebrate the matrimony of his cousin Lady Jeyne Royce and Lord Jon Arryn, the young Falcon. Ser Elys had fought with unnatural strength that day, defending the honour of his beloved Lady Jeyne against many a challenger. According to Bronze Yohn, Ser Elys had fallen in love with Lady Jeyne the very first time he set his grey eyes upon her…and despite his broken heart at her nuptials, fighting for her honour had been his chance to prove himself to her publicly. His blade had struck all the truer, and a proud Lord Royce had knighted the lad himself.

This Jeyne Royce had been tall and handsome, but of a frail disposition, and prone to bouts of profound melancholy. Jon Arryn had wanted her all the same, and Lord Royce had been loathe to deny him. Jon Arryn had been handsome at the time, with all the vigour and promise of youth, but only Elys Waynwood could make her smile when sadness clouded her mind and she could scarce rise from her bed for days on end.

Lady Jeyne and Ser Elys were close…too close, some said, but even in the spring of his life Jon Arryn had been uxorious in the utmost. Ser Elys made Lady Arryn smile when he could not, and Jon would not send him away. It perhaps to put paid to spurious talk that Lord Arryn happily encouraged Ser Elys to wed the young Alys Arryn, his own maiden sister.

It was by way of this Lady Alys, his grandmother, that Harry derived his right to his beloved cream and sky blue, his double quartering of the Arryn moon-and-falcon sigil. With it, the Young Falcon sobriquet. Happy accident had removed eight uncles and aunts who might have stood ahead of him, and a couple cousins besides, leaving him as the heir to the Eyrie and the Vale of Arryn.

The rich lands of Ser Elys had been lost long ago, traded back to Ironoaks with little care by his ever penurious father, but the comely man he'd never known had left him the arms of House Waynwood, to add to those of Hardyng his father had left him-

 **"Morning."**

He turned to gaze upon his latest conquest. _Mapel? Mabel?_ Her name evaded him, and in the morning's light she struck an altogether different picture than that which had enticed him into this tryst. Any semblance she had once borne to the Mockingbird's scion was but the bastard child of that fine Dornish strongwine from the night before.

Decorum demanded a smile and he was not one to shirk from duty. **"Morning."**

She moved to kiss him again but his lips, dry and chapped, would barely crack open before he pulled away and stood. A pleading hand reached over and sought to hold him, coax him back, but he dodged her shabby attempt at seduction and fumbled around for his woollen hose. He felt now the bitter thud of winter as it bit down on every inch of him, lamenting silently that he would soon have to abandon his preferred cut of upper hose for looser hanging slops which better covered him from waist to foot.

He would find the hose after a few quick instants, but not in time to avoid the unwelcome embrace and stuttering hands of the maid. He looked down on her smiling face with disdain, and thought for a minute to strike her away.

He emerged to find the castle and all the spirits within dead, wet, and dull. It had rained hail in the night, so heavily that one of the viewing stands for the tourney had collapsed on itself. Lord Nestor's voice could be heard booming up from the courtyard, barking orders and reprimanding whichever of his men he was holding responsible for the disaster. Littlefinger soon appeared at his side, speaking in quieter and more measured tones, his words indiscernible from the Falcon Tower.

Through the window the other two viewing stands could be seen - intact, but as wet as the bright banners which had been draped over them all in adornment. The courtyard was no drier, and even the rushes leading from Harry's room to the stairs seemed damp and soaked. Wherever he was, little Lord Robert would no doubt awake to the bitter news that his brotherhood of Winged Knights would be a while longer in the forming.


	3. Brynden I

It was a dark and dingy hole that he awoke to. Torches on the cave walls offered the sole meaningful source of light, though in the distance he could see what must be an opening, an earthen ramp leading out into the outside world. He made to rise but a searing pain in his chest sent him hurtling back; even if he hadn't his stirring caused a minor commotion and saw a rugged one-eyed man push him back down and restrain him until he ceased resisting. The rugged man stroked his bald head with something approaching tenderness and regarded him curiously, standing as he muttered.

 **"What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger."**

Frey replaced the rugged man, standing over him with a wry challenge of a smile. The Blackfish frowned and looked about, though it hurt to do so. Old men, young men, broken men and outlaws the lot. Scum, he'd have called them, if he had the energy. Even looking hurt, and he fell back defeated and betrayed by his own decrepit body.

A silence followed - and when it ended he couldn't be quite sure whether he'd fallen asleep again or just shut his eyes a few seconds.

 **"Don't you want to know what happened?"** teased Frey, sitting at the side of his bed, laying a rough and unwanted hand just south of the pain in his chest.

He knew the voice, and the accursed face that spoke it. Aegon Bloodborn was the firstborn of Ser Aenys Frey, a son of the late Lord Frey known for being both cruel and clever. Brynden neither knew nor cared where the son had obtained the name, but what he did know was disagreeable enough. His own brother had declared the man an outlaw when he broke the King's Peace, years before, and becoming his prisoner was a prospect only slightly more inviting than falling into Lannister hands. By every account the son had inherited his father's bad blood, though time proved him unable to imitate the more cunning of his kin and avoid the detection of his crimes. Brynden had known him briefly as a lad, squiring for Dafyn Vance. The Bloodborn was still unknighted when he had incurred Hoster's wrath and committed crimes heinous enough that Riverrun should preoccupy itself with a ruling regarding him, branding him outlaw and commanding all good and honest subjects to see to his immediate arrest. Aegon had been accordingly surprised and captured, only to escape his captors under mysterious circumstances and vanish into the country.

Thereafter Walder and his kin had feigned ignorance of the lad's whereabouts. Hoster was already old then, and Brynden was far away - too far away to do anything about it. By the time he learnt of the story he was employed in the Vale and honour-bound to attend the cares of House Arryn, not House Tully. Aegon and the gaggle of hangers-on he surrounded himself with had done little by way of real nuisance, and for a time it was thought he had quit the Riverlands altogether and gone across the sea to ply his sword in the Free Cities. Whatever his exploits the winds of war had now blown him back across the Riverlands to a life of thievery and dishonesty, by which means he ingratiated himself with the smallfolk and continued to evade the death the law imposed on him.

If he had the strength, the Blackfish would have imposed his brother's justice one last time, grabbed the wretch by the throat and rammed the scarce piss-stained bedsheets about him down the Bloodborn's throat. It would not be the death he had wished for, but it'd be satisfaction enough at this juncture. He would have rallied his last strength and lunged, he swore, were it not for the girl. The girl had no blame in all this foul business, and he was her sole shield now.

As if reading his thoughts, the Bloodborn smiled and began. **"You want to know what happened to the Lady Jeyne? Queen Jeyne, rather?"**

The Blackfish sneered but the Bloodborn seemed unperturbed, gingerly resting his hand on the Blackfish's thigh and making himself comfortable on the bed, wriggling his bottom like a suckling child taking a happy seat beside his darling mother. The Bloodborn did not have to look back or say so much as a word to his men for them to clear out, shuffling away into the shadows and behind flickering flame, out into the open or down into passages unseen. He closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind for a minute. He and the girl were caught. He had mocked the Freys at Riverrun and slipped through their fingers only to fall into the grasp of their kinsman. What chance the man would allow him any window for escape? The girl was dead or sorely abused by now, he wagered, and whatever dwindling hope they had harboured for Tully and Stark would die with them before the day was out.

 **"Riverrun is...fallen, yes, and bestowed upon House Frey, for this and all generations to come. The King-"**

 **"Fuck your king!"** the Blackfish sputtered, mustering all his strength for this last flurry of Tully pride and defiance. **"The Riverlands knows no King but the King of the Trident, whose name is Stark!"**

The Bloodborn smirked, as if humoured by the show of defiance, the almost petulant stab at suicide, though his smile never quite made it to his eyes. These latched on firmly to the Blackfish's and shifted little as Aegon wiped a couple of stray drops of Tully spit from his cheek, weighing the Blackfish's words in uneasy silence.

 **"Your King is dead and his Kingdom with him, last I checked. Your army is gone, your castle-"**

 **"Bugger you, wretch! By rights-"**

 **"By rights? By rights you say. By rights your nephew Edmure is the criminal now, and you with him. Most like I'll be pardoned and richly rewarded once I turn you over to the Lannisters.. "**

The Blackfish sneered again and would have spat at the weasel were his mouth not so dry. **"Why haven't you already, you son of a whore?"**

 **"Your nephew, Lord Edmure. Ser Edmure now, I suppose. He is yet to leave the Riverlands."**

 **"..What of it?"**

 **"What of it? He's bound west for Casterly Rock, with four hundred men for escort."**

The Blackfish looked at him, at a loss, and Aegon tilted his head in thought, his hand giving the Blackfish's thigh a distatestful squeeze.

 **"If the Kingslayer thinks a single one of you is worth four hundred common men, who am I to disagree? And I'll wager the babe in her belly is worth ten times that, at the very least."**

The Blackfish studied his eyes and had not the good sense to stop from talking.

 **"So long as I draw breath House Frey shall never sit easy. Neither Riverrun nor the Twins shall be secure to them if I can help it."**

The outlaw smiled and nodded. **"We stand together."**


	4. Jeyne I

The flames flickered uneasily atop the two greasy tallow candles afforded her. Their shadows seemed to dance menacingly on the dark walls on either side of her, but she was not afraid. _I must be hard like the North_ , she reminded herself, _hard and unyielding._ She finished her supper in silence and poured out the last of the honeyed milk for the spirits of the earth, as she had done also at the start.

She was not going to die here, not tonight. That much, at least, she knew. It was what she did not know that set her stomach aflutter and kept her awake at night. The Blackfish was no fool, nor an ordinary man to be duped or deceived with ease. He and Lord Edmure and others she did not even know of had conspired and plotted together and seen to her escape. Days had passed and a Lannister army was yet to fall upon them. So far, so good, were it not for the bandits and outlaws into whose power they had passed instead. Such people were naturally indisposed towards the Lannisters and Freys, judging by all she had heard whispered and rumoured at Riverrun. What they made of Tully and Stark was less certain, however, and by whatever name and cloak she was still a Westerlander born...

The uncouth men ogled and leered at her from a distance. Some sighed, others frowned and looked away. A few even ventured to lick their lips and make such eyes and faces that a small shiver traced its way down her spine. Not one had ignored her altogether. She had no desire to spend the slightest amount of time whatsoever alone with any one of them. The gods had been good and none had attempted to steal into the alcove or trouble her at night. On the whole they had been kind, even gentle and solicitous in their way, as much as broken men and brigands could be said to boast such virtues. She had tried to listen for northmen in their midst, for men as hard as her Lord husband had been, with a growl like his...no, not like his, no one had a growl like his. No one living, at least. His brothers were all dead, her sisters too, all but the bastard Snow - a treacherous and untrustworthy creature, to hear the Blackfish tell it...and a world away from them whatever the truth of the matter. He was not here nor was any other man of Winterfell, judging by their endless bickering and prattling. These were Riverlanders, by and large, but if they were to feel beholden to anyone, it would be to the mighty Lord Brynden, not her.

She had been Queen once, a lifetime ago. As Queen she had been mistress to better men than these in their thousands and thousands. She had played her part well, she thought. The Young Wolf's bride had been sweet and gentle, all demure smiles and earnest entreaties for mercy whenever someone offended her royal husband. She knew well it was a royal consort's place to give her husband an escape - and so she had been cheery and trivial where his mother was solemn and sore, soft and compliant where the northmen were ever difficult and cantankerous. She had even contrived to make herself useful, in those moments were her husband's grave sovereignty demanded he mete out obdurate justice and good sense required the exact opposite. She had intervened on behalf of her enemies the Freys and others besides, the weakness of her sex allowing her husband to pardon the errors and perceived offences as a boon to her, without injury to his royal authority.

She did not do more than he wanted or needed her to do, but it was enough to taste power, real power, and long for more of it, much more.

Her crown and husband were gone now, and with it the power they had given her. Irreparably, perhaps. Gone too, she was slowly realising, were the dreams of happiness and comfort that had made her endeavour to take Robb Stark into her bed. She lived now to safely deliver a Stark heir and bring forth the avenging of a man poisoned, seduced and killed in the name of her ambition. A son of Robb Stark would wield a magic more powerful than any witch or wizard she had ever heard or read of. His name alone would conjure up armies, breed dissension and uproar, wage war and wreak havoc upon his father's enemies. She prayed Robb's ghost would consider the debt paid then, and allow her to go into the earth in peace when the time came.

Until then, her hope of success resided in the Blackfish. That he cared not a jot for her and thought only of the wolf-pup growing inside her mattered not. She had no great love for the crabby old lout either, but he was the only protector and shield left her and her child.

The babe could be born female, of course, but that was not a thought to be entertained. The Blackfish would be ill-pleased, she supposed. She would too. She must think as she wished. Believe as she desired. She would bare a son and name him Stark, to strike terror into all their will be his mother's milk, she pondered, hatred his helpmeet.

He had to be born first, however. A promise of armies and banners meant nothing if she was sold to the Lannisters, torn asunder by some outlaw's blade, or worse of all defiled by a strange man's touch. Yet more thoughts not to be considered.

Disconcertingly her gaolers refused her access to the Blackfish, or even so much as sight of him, though they assured her he was well kept and recovering nearby. Yet feigning sleep she fancied she heard one speak of his body drowned and lifeless pulled from the river. She had seen him struggle, in the water, but there had been so many of them, it had been heard to see, hard to understand. He was made of tougher stuff than most, that she knew, and it was not beneath her to grievously mishear the muffled talk of others. She was glad to harbour such uncertainties - better to remain ignorant for the nonce. She had also heard the men speak of him and a Dagon and an Aegon, but she had been almost asleep then, too tired to feign any longer, too weak to care. Perhaps he had fought such men, long ago - a Dagon Greyjoy had troubled the coasts of the West in times past, she remembered, and the name Aegon was favoured above all among the dragon princes not long removed from the Iron Throne. Aye, old weathered Brynden Tully was ancient enough to have known and fought such men, enough to be remembered for it in his native Riverlanders. Indeed, if at least one in their number was highborn enough to have had a maester, they would have stories aplenty of the Blackfish's valour and cunning to marvel at. Stories they might get to retelling and sharing if the man was dead...or alive and in their midst. She did not know, could not know, and must trust in her intuition. She was not going to die, not here, not tonight, and that meant the Blackfish was safe too.

She had heard some of those stories herself, back at Riverrun. Brynden Tully was one of the few men who seemed to truly command alike the respect of the Young Wolf and his formidable mother, the fierce Lady Cat with her disapproving face etched all in marble and set hard in flame. It would take more than these to bring him down, she wagered.

By morning, all talk of him had ceased and the whispers turned to the Hangwoman called Stoneheart and her merry band of followers. She had not known of House Stoneheart before, but if its Lady had gone outlaw she was like to be no friend of Lannister or Frey. Growing up at the Crag they had often been in lack of a Maester - " _another mouth to feed, and to what use?_ ", her mother used to say, but in the end Lady Sybell had always conceded that their family's dignity and breeding required a maester, not a wife, to send letters and brew potions. _A mummery if ever there was one, her mother still wrote and received every letter and supervised every stir under the Crag's leaky roof._ Her family's ancestral home was more ruin than stronghold, but it was a royal ruin all the same, the seat of kings and queens of old.

All that history meant little and less when one had no coin. The maesters that were sent to them were invariably too old or too young, incapable and unlearnt to a man, and in any case more devoted to the education of her brothers than Jeyne and her sister. Her mother was always prone to hurt or dismiss them, and she could not recall one who lasted more than a year. She was studied enough to know that the Stonehearts would likely descend from a bastard line of Vale nobility, scions of the Corbrays perhaps. They had been kings too once, not unlike her Westerling ancestors, and it would be no spectacular thing for a bastard line to take root here or there. What that would mean for the Lady Stoneheart's allegiances she could not guess, though Ser Brynden had been headed for the Vale and in hope of raising an army there. If the old trout was truly dead, a Valewoman however horrid might make for the very best next thing as keepers went.

The tired-looking serving girl returned and took away her cup and plate, eyeing her curiously for an instant before scuttling away into the night. The girl avoided talking to her at all costs, but what few words she had muttered here and there were always prefixed with a carefully placed _m'lady_ or _Grace_. The brutes outside were no different with their grotesque courtesies and the fanciful imaginations they used when they thought her out of earshot. _Her Loveliness, Her Wolfiness, the Wolf Queen, Lady Pureheart_ and the more staid _Her Grace m'Lady Stark_ were only a handful of what seemed like a thousand titles the men toyed with. There was little added mocking in their tone, and what teasing and haranguing ensued seemed most directly at each other than against her. More than one had called her ugly, or uncomely, but by and large the men seemed more playful than hateful, a pleasing omen.

She did not think bandits who planned to rape or kill a woman would bother with such flatteries and deference. She could only pray that she heard them right and weighed their words correctly.

More like than not, overheard conversation counted for more than the guest right in these sorry times.

When the girl eventually returned she did not bring the bath and change of clothes Jeyne had ardently been hoping for. She brought instead old dried loaves and some rabbit stew, with nuts and honey to sweeten the mouth after. In so dire a community, such fare might even pass for a Queen's portion. Certainly her present custodians seemed resolved to keep her well fed and provisioned. Or else they did not wish to be bothered by a pregnant woman's wiles in the night.

She lamented silently as the girl traipsed away. _I have married the North and carry forty thousand blades in my womb, but I cannot bring myself to ask this waif for bathwater or a change of clothes._ She could feel heady traces of the Red Fork's mud and silt still on her, and wondered at the cleanliness of the cloths the girl had used to bathe her upon her arrival. The stuffy air of their cramped underground abode did not make her feel any purer or lighter either. _I am a Stark of Winterfell, the Queen of Winter, the hope and dream of the slain...but my most urgent prayer is for a clean shift in a colour less drab than this grey._ They had changed her out of her septa's disguise at once, though all memory of the event was lost to her - she hoped they had afforded her fitting privacy and discretion. Somehow she doubted it. Gods being good the serving girl had taken the robes to wash in some stream and put out to dry...but somehow she doubted that too. Those robes could be halfway across the Riverlands now. She wondered if, like her supper, the drab grey shift they had put her in might pass for royal pickings - that, she did not doubt.

She devoured the rabbit stew and lay to rest. She would nibble at the rest when she next awoke. She smashed a couple of nuts underfoot, another offering before her slumber. Such attentions would keep her safe and guarded, especially in a place like this under the earth. If her foot had bled a little, all the better. She thought of her mother, her sister, her father and said a silent prayer that their mummeries would serve them well. Her sister had taken her place and her mother had promised to blind the Lannisters as long as she could. The Lady Sybell could lie and scheme with the best of them, but she knew better than trust her mother with heart and soul. Her mother would throw her and the Blackfish to the flames if it meant the difference between survival and no.

She awoke to the sound of hurt men wailing in the night. The band had no maester, which was no surprise, but swore by the wisdom of some wizard of theirs, a murderous looking man with gold plated teeth and a wicked smile. He was ironborn, she had deduced, though perhaps the son of thralls or some unfortunate salt wife given the hue of him. He served them for priest and healer, and was wont to cleanse their wounds with salt water and burning steel. Whatever small success the man enjoyed her, she had yet to meet a match for her lady mother with either blade or poultice.

The screaming continued, and there was something of a clamour as more men arrived and bellowed. She felt fear well up in her innards but lay perfectly still, pushing it back down and closing her eyes once again.

 _I will not die here, not this night, that much I know._

A haggard-looking soldier entered her alcove abruptly, all dressed in pink rags and an odd motley of armour. She opened her eyes in thinly-concealed terror, and gulped down a scream. For a moment he stood towering over her, silent and smirking in the dark.

 **"Valar morghulis,"** he offered with a flourish, and when she failed to utter any meaningful return he knelt and took her available hand in his. **"Your Grace."**

No northern growl there, just the scents of sorcery and traces of the East, though where exactly she could not quite place.

 **"What is this?"** She insisted, pulling back her hand and her lips into a girlish scowl. If the man took her for a Queen still it would do well to proceed carefully and test the waters.

He straightened himself back up and took in the full measure of her with hungry eyes. Beyond him other men made for the alcove, a scene that inspired little joy in her.

She sat up against the alcove wall and regarded him forlornly, as only an adolescent girl could. **"Surely it is night already."**

He nodded. **"The night is dark and full of terrors, my Lady-"**

 **"But the fire burns them all away,"** she countered, rising slowly to regard him and his approaching companions face to face.


	5. Bronn I

It felt good to be Lord again.

He admired the looking glass silently. It was the most ornate and intricate thing he had ever owned in his life. He didn't recall ever seeing himself quite so cleanly before it, and was ever glad for the chance to straighten his back and regard himself in it, upright and proud, a right proper lord. Most days he had one of the serving boys wheel it out as his bath was being poured; other times he would position it himself, in front of the fireplace and across from his bed. It was good for watching himself with women, too, especially comely ones. When he'd first arrived at the castle he'd wondered aloud if there was some magic or queer craft in it, that it should show a man his living shade so perfectly. The old man had laughed then, right in his face.

 _Ain't laughing now._

Some days he barely recognised the wolfish bastard gazing back at him. Even naked he looked half a prince now, with his every part scrubbed free of dirt and his every hair well trimmed. The whiskers made him look half wolf, in truth, but they added a welcome gravity to his ill-bred visage and framed his long face rather nicely. His formerly gaunt cheeks had filled out somewhat, and the rest of his frame too. It was not all bad - he no longer looked the part of starving mongrel, that was for certain. His black eyes looked lighter than their usual, or what he had always taken for their usual, a striking grey in the right light.

This last visit to King's Landing had been more unpleasant than the last, but such was a Lord's lofty burden. He could hardly leave it to his lackwit wife to sell off all they didn't need and make sure their wares all fetched the best possible price. Her mother's finery, her father's trinkets, her sister's gowns - he'd sold them all for coin. Cold, hard silver, and gold too. Folks born with money were shit with it, he well knew, even when they had all their wits about them. Most of them would rather let something rot or go to waste then take it to market and haggle with the lowborn. The new Lord Stokeworth did not share any such qualms. Nor was he prone to hold onto chests upon chests of things he neither needed nor wanted. The castle was better off without all the clutter, as were his pockets. Autumn was here and banditry was everywhere, with winter and war fast approaching on all sides. In the capital the lions and roses and sparrows were all at each other's throats, and might be a queen or two would fall soon...

Gold was worth more to him than a dead woman's fine fabrics and soon enough food would be worth more than gold. Best thing he could do now was gather all the gold he could get his hands on and turn it into armed men and stocked food.

Castle Stokeworth enjoyed a privileged position straddling the Kingsroad up from the royal capital northward. Its lands had been left untouched by the war and were one of the capital's few potential sources of food whenever the bounty of the Mander and Riverlands grew scarce or unavailable. Before her death the Lady Tanda had laboured to keep the Red Keep well supplied, but the new Lord Stokeworth suffered from no such madness. The bitch Queen had asked his head of Ser Balman and would contrive to strike him down at the earliest opportunity. Let her and her garrison starve to death, for all he cared. Her wanting him dead was to be expected, really, but he found the matter weighing down on him more than it should. Some days he thought about gathering all his gold, all his silver, all his jewels and darting across the sea to a new life in the Free Cities. More often he'd content himself with cursing the whore and drinking himself into a stupor where defeating the might of House Lannister was actually imaginable to him.

For now, at least, the Lioness sat declawed and defanged, a prisoner in her own castle. Her sun was setting and the rose of Highgarden rising...though he wasn't ready to count her out just yet, not when her son was still King and the High Sparrow still had the Rose Lord's daughter on trial. _Let them rot for all I care._ He had diminished Stokeworth's provision of the Red Keep almost immediately, sending on produce of increasingly lower quality and citing the mismanagement of the aged Lady Tanda for having put undue strain on Stokeworth's granaries. When no complaint came, and the new Master of Coin refused him audience, he had counted himself at full liberty to ply his wares elsewhere.

A couple of clipped coppers in the right hands had helped him root out what good business there was to be had. He had chanced upon the Bastard of Driftmark flashing hefty amounts of Lannister gold at anyone who had so much as a loaf of bread he could take out to sea. A slippery, slippery man was Aurane Waters, but Bronn had been glad for the coin. Aurane meant to take his little fleet and put it out to sea. From what Bronn gathered, he could not readily turn to the roses and there was not much in the Red Keep that could be spared for his men. No wonder - the Queen who had raised him up and commissioned the ships was no longer in power and the Tyrells had no need of him when they could still call upon the maritime might of the Arbor. Nor could a proud and right-born man such as was Ser Kevan of the House Lannister be thought likely to suffer the presence of an inexperienced bastard on the Council as Cersei had done. No, Aurane's time in the capital was done, Bronn wagered, so long as he could stock up food enough. Stokeworth was happy to oblige. Unsurprisingly the bastard was not at all squeamish about spending the Queen's gold. And so the finest pigs and venison and geese and roots and flour of Stokeworth had been carted away under guard, to Bronn's great glee and even greater profit.

When word came that the man had turned pirate and abandoned the Queen, Bronn nearly shat himself laughing.

He was still chuckling at the memory when the washerwoman traipsed in with a silver platter and a flagon of wine.

"M'lord," the plump matron curtsied briefly and shuffled over to his great oak desk, where he liked to count his coin or collect his Lordly dues from comelier fare than her.

"Bring it here," he scowled, wondering if the hag was some baseborn sister of his lackwit wife. "Where's Brella?"

He'd found the poor maid scrubbing for whores in a brothel and promptly fetched her back to Stokeworth. The Imp had not chosen her for no reason - service in Renly Baratheon's household had taught her how to be blind, deaf and mute, and could be he'd need well-trained servants about when highborn guests came calling. Better yet, poverty had done her figure a world of service and left her more receptive than ever. Even now his bastard grew inside her, and he'd been eager to spill his seed inside her a few more times for good measure.

"Brella's resting her feet, m'lord," said the woman.

"Rohanne, is it?" He reached out and gave a good squeeze inbetween her legs, but all he could feel was wool over wool. She smelt of lilacs and was almost attractive in the right light, with her dark curls and shamefaced blushing. He fumbled a bit before seizing her hand instead and directing it to his sex.

"Awful long name for a common girl. Don't suppose t'was old Lord Stokeworth fathered you, eh?"

"I'm no girl, m'lord, and no, not him." She flushed crimson now. "Name was given me long ago, and I kept it ever since. M'lord."

He nodded halfheartedly and jerked her away, standing. She didn't seem perturbed at the sight of all of him, making him question all this apparent innocence. A clever game to play, for an ugly old matron.

"I see. Right lordly that, a good name. Per'aps I'll squirt my seed in you and if it's a girl, you can call it that proper."

He made to draw her nearer, but she flinched slightly. After dithering a moment she looked up to meet his eyes with her own. Her expression was curious, and he shifted uncomfortably beneath her gaze.

"Perhaps m'lord would allow me to entertain you otherwise?"

He did not need long to ponder that - life as Lord of Stokeworth was boring as chicken shit most of the time, and he was always in the mood for some excitement. Might be she'd learned something entertaining from some passing traveller and thought to ensnare her Lord with it now. Fat chance he'd ever have her again, but it was only proper he bestow his Lordly blessing on all the castle's womenfolk before winter was through.

"Go on then, I'm all ears. In for a dance, am I? Some singing maybe?"

She shook her head and looked down, crestfallen, almost child-like, a right plump ol' lamb ripe for the slaughterin'.

"There's a boy, m'lord..." She seemed almost on the verge of tears, her lips all aquiver. "A boy in need of hiding, you see? I don't s'pose...if m'lord would take him in a while...I could reward you well, I swear it, m'lord would...it'd be worth it, m'lord.."

 _Oh, so that's the game, eh?_

For the better part of the year he had been carefully gathering a force. He began by hiring four swords, men such as himself...well, not quite like himself, but apt for any service he might ask of them. He'd knighted them all and promised each a squire and a wench if they served him well. He did not have to look far. Everywhere people were starving and every week some orphan or other was brought to the village below seeking food and shelter - that is, when they weren't found huddled beneath some loose plank with the left overs of someone else's supper. He preferred the thieves, every time - the innocent ones were more prone to have a conscience and expect payment for their work.

With the war not yet at Stokeworth's gate and the word out that the new Lord was hiring men, the sparrows and smallfolk alike had begun bringing misbegotten whelps to the castle door quite frequently. He'd taken the four sturdiest and made squires out of them. By the time he had doubled his guard and then doubled it again, he had in his service several men of quality, chief of whom was the well-storied Ser Dermot of the Rainwood, named captain of the guard by him. Squires were promptly procured from the orphans and the local boys, and he himself took the two who scrubbed up best to wait on him as pages, at least until he managed to wring a squire or two of proper breeding from some noble house for himself. Now Ser Dermot spent the better part of his days whipping the lads into shape, with bow and blade and mace besides...

Too much generosity was never a good quality in a Lord. He could not take in _every_ boy whose mam came seeking his favours. Not ugly ones like this, at least. He shook his head and tried to imagine her without anything on.

"Sorry love, but castle's a bit full, don't you think? More swords would be welcome, aye, but there's boys enough as it is."

She straightened her back and nodded forlornly. He almost asked where the entertainment was but turned away and thought the matter done with - yet he had barely moved an inch when her matronly fingers daintily dropped a bag before him onto his desk.

He'd know that clinking anywhere.

He could smell it a mile off.

 _Gold._

"Where'd you..?"

The Spider gave him no time to finish. "Ser Bronn of the Blackwater. Far be it from me to waste your time, or you mine."

He looked back in silent bewilderment, and felt a brief wobble in the knee.

"Varys."

"Ser Bronn. Can you take the boy in or not?"

"Depends," he countered a half century later, moving to offer the eunuch a handshake Varys only glanced at briefly, and with genteel disdain at that. Bronn pulled his hand back and snatched up the gold instead, wondering where his nearest knife was, just in case. He enjoyed the way the coins bounced inside the bag under his grasp. "Who's the boy?"

The eunuch seemed not to hear him, producing something else from his sleeves instead - an old iron key, long and black and not a little rusted. The Spider lay it down on the table with the same delicacy as he had the gold.

"What's that?"

"The key to Rosby's postern gate," he cooed, crossing his hands in front of him in characteristic fashion. "You'll make short work of the garrison, I'm sure, and might be those who live will be glad to serve their rightful Lady Lollys...and her lord husband, of course."

There it was - that faintest of smiles.

"Who's the boy? I need to know what I'm getting into here, else.."

"You'll find out soon enough, Ser Bronn. All I need is for you to keep him safe and well hidden until he is of use. Trust me when I say our Queen shall be too distracted elsewhere to meddle in Stokeworth _or_ Rosby anytime soon."

Bronn nodded slowly, and accepted the towel the eunuch handed him, draping it around himself.

"It's not the Imp, is it? It's him, isn't it?"

"No, I'm sorry to say. Lord Tyrion is a world away right now, but alive and well last I saw him, you'll be glad to know. The boy is someone else entirely...well, not entirely, but you have nothing to fear from him."

"When did you last see him? Where...did you...you had a hand in it all? And who the fuck is this boy?"

"A boy," soothed Varys, smiling again, "a boy it'd be best no one caught wind of until the time is ripe. Now listen to me, and listen close. You'll find the postern gate by following the brook behind the first tavern you come across from here to there. Do what you want with Lord Rosby's ward, but send no raven until...until, well, you'll know when the time is right."

"You're making no sense, eunuch. I'm not exactly Cersei Lannister's favourite person, am I? Or Ser Kevan's, for that matter. I doubt the bloody Tyrells will be glad of me becoming Lord of Rosby too either. How do I know any one of them, or all of them, won't unleash a rain of hellfire and brimstone on my head for all my presumption?"

"Trust me," insisted Varys, looking to the gold. When Bronn tightened his grip and looked to the key, the eunuch smiled and gave the Lord of Stokeworth a deliberate and obsequious nod of his head before slipping away, a half-smile still on his lips.


	6. Greenbeard

Castle Lychester stood tall and proud in the half-light, jutting up boldly against the shimmering waters of the Red Fork through trees and undergrowth.

As fortifications went it was an old, crumbling seat, the decrepit property of a decrepit lord, but for a gathering such as this there was no place better.

A way's away from the keep was a hatch opening carved into the stone, obscured by grass and overgrown bushes on all sides. They found it unlatched and easily removed. To the uninformed interloper the opening might seem like the forgotten entrance to a storeroom or strongroom of some sort, but everyone here tonight knew very well what lay beneath. Underfoot sprawled a small array of chambers and corridors, and no doubt a passage or two stretching back to both riverbank and castle.

A good place to store food - an even better place to hide, he thought.

Ned Dayne slipped down first, followed by Swampy Meg and her sister, Green Gya. He followed next, leaving it to Anguy to close the passage behind them.

Undetectable to those above ground men were already deep in congress below, mixing words and secrets with what poor excuse for ale and wine Lord Lychester could provide. The sad old man was not present, they were glad to note. Less fortunate was the lack of chairs - the few available were already occupied and the majority stood huddled over the table. Bar a few cursory looks of suspicion and disinterest, and some ruffling of Ned Dayne's golden locks, none stopped their chatter or moved to herald their arrival.

 **"Lady Stoneheart will not send her strength,"** the pink wizard was repeating, but the Blackfish beside him seemed to grow more impatient and displeased with each passing second.

 **"Tell this Lady of yours the Freys will still be there the day after,"** barked the old trout. He doubted the old man had had to jump down into the oubliette like they had. No doubt he had come in comfortably, through some trapdoor in the castle itself.

 **"M'lady knows,"** countered the wizard, **"it is not for them she stays behind. Sevenstrings says Jaime Lannister told the Freys to send down all their prisoners. That's Greatjon Umber and Marq Piper and others besides, ripe for the picking. Lord Edmure-"**

 **"Bah!"** the Blackfish did not seem a man to measure his thoughts, not even in a council of men with less reason than him to care. **"Lord Edmure did not know what we were up against when he agreed to your plan. You tell your Lady if she cares a rotten egg for Stark or Tully or killing Freys she'll step to heel and bring every man she can spare to us! Without Edmure..."** He shook his head, grumbling.

 _The man doesn't know. We're talking about his blood, and he doesn't know._

An uneasy silence hung over the room. He wondered how many others were thinking the same fearsome thought, and then what orders Mother Merciless had given on the matter. The Blackfish would have been told if it was her wish. It would be a foul thing to fall into her power, thought Pello, and so he bit his tongue and kept his peace.

The silence was broken by young Maester Roone, nurse to Lord Lychester and master of his household. The stripling shuffled past them and even displaced the Blackfish's arm gently, before producing a piece of parchment from underarm. He unfurled the map on the table before them, diligently placing a round stone weight at each corner. One got the impression the youth was quite relishing the opportunity to ponder something other than his Lord's wandering mind or whatever was to be prepared for dinner that night. Such boredom made for a most useful ally, as the Forgotten Fellowship and many of their friends had found in recent times. The Maester was careful and not unduly trusting, but there was always a barn and some bread and ale for those who were friends to the smallfolk and old Lord Lychester. The Tyroshi freeriders themselves had made good use of such hospitality, back when the boy Maester took in all their meat to salt and cook. He'd helped them hide their plunder in the Lord's cellar and let them make merry use of the scullery maids. In return they did not touch his Lord's lands and kept them safe from less savoury sorts.

 **"If they make it to Casterly Rock, we are lost. We will never see Lord Edmure again."**

There was fear there, buried beneath the Blackfish's usual commanding tone. And rightly so. The rest went without saying. A captive Edmure Tully meant a headless House Tully: Ser Brynden was an old man and the only known heirs of Tully blood were a frightened girl held at Winterfell and a sickly boy waiting for death at the Gates of the Moon. Pello did not think either one likely to step on Riverlander soil any time soon, let alone to take up arms against Lannister. He'd heard whisper Aegon Bloodborn's men were saying the Blackfish had with him the babe of Robb Stark, a child with right to the fealty of the Riverlords...but Pello did not see how that was any better than Lord Edmure's own child, a little weasel planted in the womb of Lord Walder's daughter. The Lannisters would raise it and train it well at Casterly Rock, he did not doubt.

 **"They have four hundred men, Blackfish. Four hundred!"**

Aye, but there was no two ways about it. How long the Riverlords would keep aiding brigands and outlaws if the name Tully faded out of memory and the Lannisters and Freys brought peace to the Riverlands was anyone's guess. An imprisoned Lord Edmure was a stumbling block to them all. Freed from captivity, he might rally the Riverlands and even decry the half-Frey whelp as someone else's bastard if need be.

 **"It will not be long before they make it to the Golden Tooth,"** offered the Maester. **"If ought is to be done for our Lord Tully, now's the time."**

 **"I was there at the Battle of the Camps,"** Pello piped up. **"Might be we can do the same 'ere. Take 'em unawares at night, kill the sentries, get in there and rescue m'lord before they even know what's what."**

 **"Four hundred men cannot hide easy,"** offered Green Gya. **"Easy to track and find and confuse too** **."**

 **"Four hundred men cannot move quickly either,"** noted her sister. **"We can overtake them no problem, hit them from any side we like."**

 **"We don't have the numbers,"** the knight in armour looked solemn, and when he moved his head Pello recognised him as Lord Theomar Smallwood. **"Not now, and not without returning to open rebellion."**

The notion of Jaime Lannister treating any relapse into rebellion as generously as he had treated Riverrun did not ring true in the slightest. Better the Riverlords pay lip service to King's Landing and lull the lions into a false sense of security, for now.

 **"We don't have the numbers,"** concurred Anguy, **"and most like Lord Edmure'd be dispatched before we even got to him."**

 **"It'd be for nought..."** the boy Ned seemed sad at that.

 **"Killing Lannisters is never for nought,"** insisted a northman.

 **"The wizard could bring 'im back,"** offered some lost boy, quickly shut up by his companions.

 **"The Kingslayer's got them well guarded, that's for sure,"** Thoros reminded, ignoring the poor lad's faith. " **Crossbows set on Edmure and the girl ready to pierce a thousand holes in each at the slightest sight of trouble."**

The Blackfish ignored them all, tracing his finger on the map. He stared so hard it seemed he might bore a hole through it.

 **"Blackfish, the risk here is great. Lord Edmure is surrounded. The Westerling girl too. If a single thing goes wrong..."**

 **"They'll be murdered or swept away to the Golden Tooth."**

 **"Could be that'll happen anyway...we should at least try."** Lord Lychester's young kinsman seemed eager for a spot of action, having enjoyed nothing but the smell of Freys and shit at Riverrun's siege.

 **"We should wait, gather our strength. With Lord Edmure free, we can risk rebellion."**

 **"You are a fool if you think that.."**

The discussion carried on, but Pello was no longer listening, no more than was the Blackfish. He studied the old man carefully, tracing each cracked line in his skin and the wry slit he had for a mouth.

 **"...we cannot _take_ the Tooth!" ** someone repeated.

The Blackfish straightened his back, and nodded to himself. The Bloodborn mimicked his stance, though Pello doubted he knew the Blackfish's plan any better than Pello did.

 **"Enough."**

It took a few instants for all to fall silent and turn their eyes to Ser Brynden, but the man's command of the room was impressive all the same.

 **"We are done here. Bring every man you can find to the old mill on t'other side of the Red Fork by tomorrow noon."**

 **"Noon?"** protested Smallwood.

 **"My Lord..."** another knight Pello did not know and even more fool than Smallwood, if he thought to caution the Blackfish away from whatever he had decided on. **"What if we get Lord Edmure killed? There is a real risk..."**

The Blackfish looked up at him with scorn and shrugged.

 **"So be it."**


	7. Harry II

It was not hard to see Littlefinger had taken care to spare some of the finest chambers in the East Tower for the Waynwoods.

The fire roared loudly, filling the room with warmth.

All else was perfect quiet, save for Sandor Frey standing beside it, fiddling urgently with a brass poker to the obvious discontent of Lady Anya. The matriarch of House Waynwood sat in dread silence, sipping wine from an ornate chalice inscribed with runes galore. He knew this mood all too well. She looked up at him for a fleeting moment before returning her eyes to the fire. He found himself unable to return the squire's uneasy warning smile before moving to the centre of the room and taking a knee.

 **"Aunt."**

The chilly non-reception that elicited impressed upon Harry the need to observe some modest formality on this occasion and kiss his guardian's wrinkled old hand. A show of filial obeisance, subjection even. Once that was done he addressed her a second time.

 **"Lady Waynwood."**

She seemed little swayed by his courtesies, and he rose shamefaced, taking a safe step back.

 **"The Lady Alayne has granted her favour to the strapping Ser Albar,"** she said at last. **"Your betrothed, Alayne."**

 **"The bastard can grant her favour to whoever she wishes,"** he countered defensively. **"This betrothal is no certain thing, after all. You promised."**

Her grim expression told him just how much she appreciated being reminded. Would that he could stop his cheeks from flushing red, as he now felt them doing. His cousin Ser Wallace, sitting at table across the room, was more generous with a smile and a nod before he returned to his reading. His other cousins were just now emerging from a side chamber, still in their smallclothes. Unlike Harry they had not been afforded the luxury of a chamber or bed each, so they had all to share room and bed.

He wondered who had drawn the short straw marked Sandor the Squire.

 **"Need I remind you that baseborn or no, the girl is heir to Harrenhal with all its lands and incomes?"**

Donnel threw his arm around him and planted a wet kiss on his cheek, unperturbed by Harry's mirthless expression. He wiped the spit from his face and focused his attention on his foster mother most stern. Meanwhile Roland was jumping and wriggling like a maddened Essosi dancer at his side, such that Harry felt his member graze his thigh. He deserved a punch then, but Lady Anya's obliviousness (or was it studied blindness?) merited a mere push, albeit one that sent Roland stumbling back.

 **"All Littlefinger's gold too,"** added Donnel, taking a seat in the spare chair besides his mother, **"and if we don't find a way to pay the many debts we now owe him, Ironoaks as well."**

What was meant as a lighthearted jape fell flat, serving only to irritate Lady Anya and remind the Waynwoods of their financial predicament. Donnel saved himself by closing his eyes and basking in the fire's warm glow. Roland tore the poker from Sandor's grasp and seemed to fix whatever was wrong with it immediately. Harry shifted uncomfortably under the burden of having to save or condemn his maternal kin...of having to control his face lest it betray some boyish fantasy of becoming Lord of what was _their_ ancestral castle.

 **"Littlefinger is young yet. He'll remarry and father trueborn sons,"** he insisted defensively. **"None shall suffer a baseborn girl to follow him as Lady of the Trident."**

 **"Perhaps. Perhaps not. You could be all the son he needs if you wed the girl. A good-son well entrenched is harder to oust from power than a baseborn girl,"** decided Lady Anya.

 **"He'll have no need for trueborn sons if you give him trueborn grandsons,"** offered Donnel, less helpfully than his tone seemed to imagine. The others concurred.

 **"A good-son is _not_ a son,"** was all of Harry's rebuttal to that. No more than a ward is a son, no more than a cousin is brother. **"He'll wed Randa Royce or some other willing brood mare before long."**

 **"If you think Littlefinger will make so useless a match as Myranda Royce for the singular purpose of breeding some heirs you are more fool than I ever took you for, Harry."**

 _That bit, but he let it wash over him and straightened his back._

 **"It'll be Cersei Lannister or nothing,"** japed Roland. His grandmother scowled at him and made him stand back up, where he'd briefly sat cross-legged before the fire. **"Or one of the sweet little roses from Highgarden, once their good names are cleared. The man's vanity would abide nothing but the daughter of a great house, and he'll get them for cheap after they've been put on trial.."**

 **"Not even Littlefinger would stoop so low as to wed Cersei Lannister,** " urged the harridan in lowered tones. She seemed appalled by the mere memory of it all, their golden Queen paraded like a common slattern in the streets. **"The woman is disgraced."**

 **"Th-th-the times are d-d-different. B-b-bolton, B-baelish..."** began Wallace, against his own better judgement. His mother completed his thought promptly, to his relief.

 **"The times are different. The Lannisters value loyalty over birth. Obedience over breeding. It is ill luck for Littlefinger he sired no son on Lady Lysa first, but the thing is done, he is Lord of the Trident. The Starks and Tullys are all gone, and our darling Sweetrobin will never take on his beloved uncle Petyr...if he even lives that long. With a good marriage and a trueborn grandson, Littlefinger will have every reason to do as Roose Bolton and legitimise the girl."** Lady Anya sounded adamant on that count, making Harry wonder if she was privy to more of the Lord Protector's plans than she was letting on.

 **"Think, cuz. You are getting a bargain here."** Roland was at his side once more, smirking like the cat who got the cream. **"Small wonder he hasn't legitimised her already. Most like to make himself more attractive to whichever rich sow he weds next."**

 **"The point stands.** **She will not follow him as Lady of the Trident."**

 **"The chance is there."**

 **"The chance to be the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms,"** beamed the squire. **"Lord of the Trident and the Vale."**

 **"Especially if the good-son in question were Lord Arryn."** Somehow he doubted Donnel's lowered tone would be enough to save them from Littlefinger's spies, if they were listening. Such talk bordered on treason, or something like it. **"With all the knights of the Vale at his back."**

 **"And all Littlefinger's gold in his pocket,"** cooed Roland, in a teasing that did not quite conceal his own ambitions. Not from Harry, at least.

 **"Listen to your cousins. The man owns the very earth beneath our feet. He has sat the Small Council for years. Do not underestimate how many would prefer an ill-bred master than a true scion of Arryn."**

That gave him pause.

 **"The Gates of the Moon are Lord Nestor's seat, not his. If he will not wed Randa, he...the castle is nothing of his.."** He seemed more set on convincing himself of that truth than anyone else. None were convinced.

 **"Lord Nestor's seat by _his_ gift. Do not imagine you will come into your inheritance easily without the man's say so. A royal decree naming him Warden of the East is but a raven away. You are nothing to the Council in King's Landing."**

He stood there, mouth agape, feeling a fool in motley. He shook his head slowly. **"My right is undeniable."**

 **"Right means little and less, cuz,"** admonished Donnel. **"Need we repeat the bit about the Boltons, how they've come to hold Winterfell, Hornwood, the North? It is all so awfully dull and depressing. Edmure Tully had his rights. The Imp and his little Stark bride, wherever she is. She had her rights too, as does Lady Bolton. We are ruled by a child King who scribbles away rights with glee."**

 **"Her bastard birth is nothing for you to scoff at, Hardyng. It will only serve to make you worthy of her notice and her grateful of your hand,"** noted Roland, evidently grown tired of such talk. **"She is an heiress, and comely to boot."**

 **"The girl is comely, aye, but my Saffron-"**

 **"Makes you happy, yes. Being Lord Arryn will make you happier."**

He looked askance at his aunt, and her eyes rose to meet his in solemn admonition. The silence was only broken when she let out a pained sigh and returned her gaze to the flames. Her words, when they came, cut through him like a warm blade through butter.

 **"Your Saffron is no longer 'your' Saffron, Harry. She has wed another."**


End file.
